The trek back to the dorms was excruciating. Gravel crunched beneath their sandals, every step sounding too loud. The incident felt like it had happened days ago rather than hours.

Peach caught up with them at the gate, swinging her bag around her wrist. She scrutinized Art's fire-marked shirt, then Thanom's sad posture, and arched an eyebrow.

"Today was a good one," she announced, her tone dry. "No one bled."

Thanom's eyes shifted from Peach to Art, then finally fell to his own scraped hands. They were still tingling from where they'd held Art's. His fingers flexed at his side. The memory of the connection—of their fingers laced together, and of pulling away. He could have closed the distance. He almost had.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Thanom didn't sleep that night. He lay on his back, kicking off the sheets, then pulling them back up. His heart was still beating frantically by the time he stepped into the morning sun.

He didn't even hear Mali at first. She tugged at his jacket, chattering about breakfast or class—something normal. He managed to nod at the right times, answer when prompted, even smile.

But his mind? His mind remained back in the alcove. Where they had almost—

His fingers curled. Still remembering. Art's eyes—wide and dark. His lips parted.

Thanom pressed a hand over his mouth, as if it could keep the memory inside, keep the yearning from spilling out.

"Phi Thanom?" Mali asked.

He snapped his head up. "What?" It came out uncharacteristically abrasive.

Mali shrank backward.

Thanom closed his eyes, forcing a breath through his nose. Control. "Sorry. I'm listening. Tell me again."

He didn't regret answering her—he never would; she was his sister, his heart—but he hated the timing.

He'd nearly crossed a line. He didn't even know if Art felt the same, though Thanom swore he'd seen a reflection of his own desire, just for a second.

If it was real… He was already in too deep.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Across the table, Art's rice remained a cold, untouched mound. He pushed the grains around the bowl.

Thanom's fingers twitched beneath the table. He wanted to slide the bowl closer, to press the spoon into Art's hand, to do something—anything—that would make this easier. Instead, he locked his hands together between his knees and kept them there.

He hadn't slept that night either. He had lain awake, staring at the shadows shifting on the ceiling, counting breaths until the numbers blurred, trying to force his brain to shut down. But none of it helped. His body remembered too much.

Art felt Thanom's gaze but kept his eyes on his bowl. He was terrified that if he made eye contact, he'd give everything away. He pressed his thumbnail into his cuticle. He didn't want things to change. To lose his Phi. He couldn't bear the thought of what they already had slipping away.

The clamor of the cafeteria—the screech of metal spoons, the shouting of students—seemed to fade into a dull roar. The ground beneath his chair felt unsteady, as if the foundation of the school had shifted overnight.

It was too close. Too fast. Too real. Too much.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Thanom hadn't meant it. Or maybe he felt differently about it than Art did.

Please don't let this be real, Art thought, pressing his spoon into the rice. Because if it's real, I don't know how to survive it.

Art glanced up, and just briefly, their eyes locked.

SCREEE!!!

Thanom's chair screeched against the floor as he stood up, a harsh sound that made Art flinch.

Peach had been tracking the tension between them while chewing her basil chicken, her eyes darting back and forth as if she was watching a tennis match.

"I have chores," Thanom choked out, then fled the room.

Peach turned to Art. She took a bite of her egg.

"Loud," she said, chewing.

Art frowned, looking at the empty doorway. "We didn't say anything all day."

"I know, right?" she said. "You're screaming."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

The next day, Thanom stayed close, but not too close. Art watched the ground more than he usually did.

Mali noticed.

"Did you guys fight?" she asked at breakfast.

"No," Thanom said too fast.

Art shook his head.

Peach watched them both and continued eating. After Mali had walked away, she murmured to Art without looking: "You two are walking around like you're holding your breath. You opened the unseen between you." Peach adjusted her bag strap. "Might want to breathe."

She walked past him. Art didn't know exactly what she meant, but as he watched Thanom's back retreat down the hall, he felt hollowed out.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Art was on kitchen duty, dicing some morning glory for lunch. The kitchen was a riot of clattering pans and yelling orphans. He was physically there, but his mind was miles away.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The rhythm of the knife was hypnotic. His thoughts wandered back and forth from Thanom's dark eyes, to the heat of his hand, to how he had looked in the cafeteria.

Chop. Chop. Ch—

The knife slipped.

The skin across his palm split open. Blood welled up instantly, bright and alarming against the green vegetables.

"Damn." Art yelped and dropped the knife. He grabbed a grimy dish towel, pressing it to the cut.

"Art?"

Thanom appeared in the doorway a minute later, like he'd been waiting for an excuse to walk in. He went pale at the sight of the red bloom spreading across the white cloth.

"You're bleeding through the cloth," Thanom chided.

Art glanced down. A drop of blood fell to the floor. "It's fine. Just a scratch."

"No, it's not. Let me see."

Thanom crossed the room and grabbed Art's wrist—his grip firm but tender—and steered him out the back exit, away from the noise and prying eyes.

They ended up behind the supply shed again.

They sat on the concrete steps with a plastic basin of water between them. Thanom dropped to his knees between Art's legs, sending a jolt of electricity through Art's spine.

"This is becoming a habit," Art tried for a laugh; it came out weak.

"You're becoming a habit." Thanom's quiet reply slipped out. Art's awkward attempt at a rejoinder died in his throat.

He searched Thanom's face, but Thanom kept looking downward, seemingly focused on unwrapping the bloodied dish towel. Art noticed that his ears had turned a vivid scarlet.

Thanom's fingers touched his wrist lightly, cautious. The cut wasn't deep, but it was clean—a thin line across Art's palm that would heal but leave a mark.

"I mean, this rag is gross. Your cut could get infected."

Thanom reached for the first-aid kit he'd snagged on the way out. He poured water over the cut to rinse it. Art twisted aside at the cool shock.

"You need to be more careful," Thanom murmured, dipping the cloth into the water. "Does it sting?"

"A little bit… and I am careful."

"No." Thanom tied the knot, his fingers lingering on the unblemished skin at the edge of Art's palm, feeling the pulse hammering beneath it. "You're not. You never look out for yourself. Would you use this rag on me?" He finally looked up, his dark eyes intense and unguarded. "Sometimes you drive me crazy, you know that?"

"You're even less careful," Art countered. "You make it too easy to worry about you, Phi. When you cut your hand, you just ignore it."

The cloth pressed against the cut. Art winced.

"Sorry," Thanom uttered quietly.

"It's okay."

Thanom worked with agonizing slowness. His fingertips felt hot to the touch.

"There," he said, reaching for the bandage. "Hold still."

When finished, he should have let go, but Thanom's hand kept cradling Art's.

"Thanom." Art's head dropped forward, relaxed.

"Yeah?"

"You can let go now."

Thanom angled his face to see their joined hands. He held on for a moment of selfish defiance.

Then Thanom jerked backwards and quickly finished wrapping the gauze, his hands moving with a brittle, cold haste. He tied the knot too tight.

"Done." Thanom stood up. He didn't look at Art. "Keep it dry."

"We should go back," Thanom said. "Before someone comes looking."

Art studied Thanom as he gathered the basin, the unused gauze, and the damp cloth. He moved with a careful efficiency that suggested he was overthinking every motion.

"Thanks," Art said, flexing his bandaged hand.

"It's whatever."

"Thanom?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time I get hurt, you don't have to—"

"Stop. Yes, I do." Thanom refused to meet his eyes. "... and I always will."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

That night, the alcove stood empty.

Art passed by it once before lights-out. He hesitated at the edge of the shadows, his bandaged hand throbbed.

He almost called out. He almost stepped into the dark.

But he was too afraid of what might happen if Thanom answered.

Around the corner, hidden by the angle of the wall, Thanom stood rigid, pressing his back against the brick.

He heard Art's footsteps pause. He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Come find me.

Please don't find me.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Art's footsteps started again, and soon faded away toward the dorms.